


weight of a whisper

by breadpoetsociety



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Final Fantasy XIV Fusion, Botanist Tweek and Adventurer Craig, Botany, Final Fantasy AU, M/M, Miqo'te (Final Fantasy XIV), Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, also its only rated teen cause they say fuck like. its yknow. "Adult", inspiration from stick of truth of course, not sick so much as injured but yeah got a caretaker thing going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 19:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadpoetsociety/pseuds/breadpoetsociety
Summary: “C-Can you do me another favor, the-then?” The blond man had rushed over to the main counter of the store. It was like a bar set against the furthest wall, surrounded by hanging plants and covered in jars. When he returned, he was holding the stem of something. The small pine shook in his grasp, and his voice was quick. “We’ve needed more, uh, of— of this!”Craig took the herb gently from the man’s hand, and though his mind called to inspect it, he couldn’t look away from the ocean of the botanist’s eyes.He’d take any excuse to come back, Craig realized slowly, as his mouth sounded out: “Sure thing.”





	weight of a whisper

**Author's Note:**

> i started this fic in november 2017. that is why it reads like it was written by 12 different people. none of them know what tenses are. 
> 
> this was also supposed to be a final fantasy xiv au (inspired by art by [dunya](https://twitter.com/Dunstachim/status/936053051521150976)) so that’s why there’s somewhat random references sprinkled throughout lmao. tbh it’s mostly generic fantasy pining but hey. still tastes like chicken.
> 
> enjoy!

Craig Tucker, of House Feldspar, First of his Name, and the stealthiest Thief of the Realm was tired of running errands for other fucking people. 

He wasn’t one for grand adventures where one risks life and limb for some staff or tome— no matter how much is offered, it’s rarely worth the effort. But, one has to pay the bills. So here he is. Searching for someone’s precious lost Fluffy. These sorts of tasks would take hours upon hours and yet he would only make fifty gold, max. Frustrating. 

Though no one awaited him at the door, Craig still stomped towards the drop-off point with a glare fixed to his face. Fetch quests had become too literal lately, though people were willing to pay quite the pretty penny for their precious companion’s safe return.

It wasn’t required that the thing be alive when returned for payment to be processed, thank god, or Craig would be really peeved. 

His calloused fingers let the bag drop with little fanfare, and Craig brushed the dust off his hands. The note attached to the burlap (bearing his fees) fluttered in dusk’s gentle breeze. He took a moment to assess his surroundings, and a peach-colored sky was the only thing looking back at him. The moon was stitched in its corner, early tonight. Murmuring voices dripped out of an open window across the road, and the gentle wind carried it away. Craig’s eyes flutter closed as he inhaled the scent of the town: lavender. 

His boots kicked up pebbles and his belt jingled as Craig followed the path most heavily worn, towards the town’s tavern. He spent most nights there since coming to the Lavender Beds from Old Gridania— rooms were cheaper there than anywhere he’d been, and hot meals were always ready. 

Craig couldn’t even be bothered to remember where he had come from before Gridania, didn’t care to plan where he would go. For all his travels, life was mundane. He would appear, he would earn gold through meaningless tasks around a town, and he would leave. Lavender Beds was no different. Another lily-pad to jump from when the lake became too still. 

The only difference here was the collection of friends he had acquired. As begrudging as he was to show any affection, Craig couldn’t help but appreciate the company. He would even catch himself hoping— hoping!— they’d follow him when he’d leave.

The walk felt long in the air, still balmy from the sun setting along the hills. Soon enough, Craig found himself stomping through a heavy wooden door and up to the bar, coin dropped from calloused hand to scuffed wood. His silent eyes, green like tornado skies, asked for a meal. He barely mumbled out a request for a room too. It’s only when his name his called that his brows quirked up (what was, in theory, a friendly glance). He makes his way to a table adorned with his friends. 

“Gentlemen.” He offered with a nod, dropping himself into the last empty seat at the table. It was where they always sat— Clyde was enamored with ritual and habit. Nothing was worse than losing his favored table for dinner.

“How are you?” That brown-haired adventurer asked as soon as Craig had settled in. Clyde’s helmet was taking up plenty of room on the table, and he propped his elbow atop it. “I haven’t seen you at all today.” 

“Got caught up in a quest. Finding someone’s lost cat.” As Craig spoke, he nodded to Token Black across from him. He was his name, acting as blacksmith— and invaluable friend to Craig and Clyde. He and the latter were a package deal, more often than not, and Craig almost envied their closeness. 

“D-Did you?” Craig suddenly realized Jimmy had joined them that night as well. (A bard, he oft stayed with his family on the other side of town rather than at the tavern. A real shame because he was proficient with the lute, and made even Clyde’s singing voice tolerable.) Craig nodded in response to his stuttered question, loosening the strings of his familiar blue hat — the chullo style of legend. It often got caught in his scarf. Today it practically choked him to death. 

“I bet they were relieved.” Token replied. 

Craig only shrugged, expression unchanged, and he thought back to the unmoving bag. “At least they’ll have something to bury.”

“Jesus christ.” Clyde was shaking his head in disbelief as his shoulders shook with an unwelcome chuckle. “You’re heartless.”

“What’s new.” And at that, an arm snaked around Craig and dropped a veritable feast in front of him. The metal of the plate burned his fingers, but he was not deterred in voraciously attacking the meat and potatoes served to them. But Craig and his gang were allowed only a moment of pure muttony bliss before the night’s air, perfumed and warm, came blustering in through the door. He didn’t bother to look up to see who had let it in — until they came over with a voice that made skin crawl with irritation.

“Well, well, well, gentlemen.” Eric Cartman spoke over the mumbling music of the tavern. Boots settled in front of their table, and Craig finally looked up at the smirking man. His face remained blank, the only change an addition of potatoes smeared across his chin. “Look who it is!”

“Cartman. Lay off.” Token said with no love lost and a mouth full of turkey. He was never one to instigate a fight, not often one to finish them— but he already sounded annoyed with the wizard’s shenanigans. Still, Cartman’s smile grew. 

Craig chose to follow his friend’s lead in ignoring him in favor of his meal. It didn’t stop the red-coat man, who circled the table and wedged his way in between Jimmy and the subject of his simpering tone: “Oh, Craig. Backing out of our friendly game? How unfair.” 

He couldn’t be assed to deign Cartman with a response beyond a raised middle finger. The man, bigger in berth but substantially shorter, growled and his heavy arms shoved Craig half off his chair.

“That’s provocation, you know!” Cartman spat into Craig’s face. He could hear the dissent of others— Stan Marshwalker, and his consort Kyle, Craig realized. Without even bothering to look at the pale man, Craig pushed himself the rest of the way up, and stalked into a more open space between tables. Cartman followed— and his lackey, Kenny, slid into Craig’s seat.

“Okay, fatass.” Craig began, hands flexing in his stiff, fingerless gloves. His eyes were too tired to even roll. Was it really too much to ask for him to enjoy dinner, no interruptions, no cold carrots? “You want your ass kicked so bad? Stop bothering me and just piss off your fucking wife.”

“Don’t talk about my Heidi like that!” Cartman was standing close, too too close to Craig, but not taking any action. Craig’s arms itched to swing, fists already formed, but he held back from the first move— for now. “Not like you’d even understand, flamer.”

“Low blow.” Kenny called from his new seat across from Clyde, and the room let out an exhale of disapproval. The taller man thought for a moment, eyes narrowing— that’s probably incitement enough. With movements like ice, Craig allowed his fist to fly through the air and crack against Cartman’s nose. His knuckles stung and were already dyed with blood. Craig huffed.

“Can we be done now?”

Cartman let out a pained cry, and swung back wildly, with intent to maim and no direction to make it happen. Sharp nails clawed against Craig’s forehead, though, and Cartman was able to get a solid hit on the side of his head. Hissing, Craig stepped back, hands pressing against hot skin. The fat bastard was panting. Blood was gushing out of his nose, and it looked crooked. He had moved away also, and the two stood locked in a battle of glares.

“I’m not doing this, dude.” Craig’s stare, like grass on a winter morning, refused to let up even as his vision swam. “I’ve been here for three weeks at _most_ and I’ve had to kick your ass every other night.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t look like a boot-licker and I would just leave you alone.” Cartman spat out, as though it would insult Craig. The words were breathy and spittle stained the collar of his shirt. Finally, Craig found the will to roll his eyes, and he stepped forward. His fist met Cartman’s face again in what he hoped would leave a winey bruise. And now back to dinner.

“Move.” Craig muttered to Kenny, as he pushed his way back around the table and plopped into his chair again. He hadn’t even bothered to look back at his sparring partner — Cartman was on the floor, flanked by Stan and Kyle, and whining something about actually winning if anyone had paid attention. 

Kenny was breathing onto Craig’s shoulder, standing too _fucking_ close, and Craig rested one hand against his forehead while the other shoveled meat into his mouth. Something wet was playing at the tips of his fingers, and bringing it to his line of sight only had Craig sighing.

“Shit.” Blood, seeping from his hairline. Fucking Cartman scratches. He hoped he wouldn’t get tetanus from that. 

“Damn, dude! You need to get that patched up.” Kenny cut in before Clyde could, an entertained worry painting both their faces. Jimmy was barely stifling laughter. Craig couldn’t really blame him. 

Even as he stared at the blood staining his fingertips, Craig shook his head. He spoke through chewing. “I’m fine. Not gonna walk all the way to find a medic for this.” 

“You don’t have to. The botanist sells ointments, salves, bandages. All you need.” Token cut in. A barmaid appeared behind him to refill his stein and shovel more food onto his half-empty plate. Craig tried to nod her over. She avoided his line of sight.

Craig squinted, trying to recall what Token was talking about. “Botanist?”

“Tweek and Son, or wh-whatever.” Jimmy replied. His pale skin was practically fluorescent in the low candlelight, messy hair casting shadows over his face. “Didn’t you d-drop something off there the other d-day?”

“I don’t remember.” Craig answered with a shrug. His shoulder was sore from carrying something heavy the other day, hands sore from the fight, legs sore from walking uneven roads. Nothing felt sore from a fetch quest for a botanist, though.

Token quirked a brow, and spoke through a smile. “I’m pretty sure it’s what’s paying for your meal right now.”

“I thought you were doing that.” Clyde tried to joke right back, but panic infected the words. Still, Token gave a laugh more full-bodied than the mead, and even Craig chuckled along. 

“I’ll go in a bit.” Jimmy muttered something about them being closed, but Craig paid it no heed. “I’ll knock loud. I just need ointment, not a new fucking head.”

“Can’t say the same about Cartman, though.” And there, Kenny reappeared over Craig’s shoulder, orange-clad arm reaching for a handful of mashed potatoes. The table let out a collective groan, save for Clyde, who almost looked on in admiration. 

“There’s our Craig. So proud of beating up the local fatass.” Stan, followed by Kyle, had joined Kenny in circling around the table also. Though Cartman and Kenny were often found on their own, the warrior Marshwalker was never seen without his elven partner by his side. 

“Shut it, Stan.” Craig said, though his nasally voice held no malice. Kenny had finally left the taller man’s space, shuffling over to steal potato off of Clyde’s plate now, offering a wink as thanks.

“Sorry about him earlier.” The red-headed Kyle offered, looking more at Stan than at Craig. His freckles were harsh on his alabaster skin. “He keeps talking about avenging himself against you.”

Craig exhaled loudly. “He says that every time.”

“He hasn’t been doing a very good job of that, has he?” Kenny replied thoughtfully— though, a smirk was hardly hidden.

“Nope.” The group chorused. 

“Dude, your head.” Stan had finally noticed the ruby staining Craig’s tan forehead and matting down his hair. God damn it, it better not stain his fucking hat. 

“I’ve got it under control.” Was all he muttered out, and with a nod Craig’s cold words sent Stan and Kyle on their way. Cartman seemed to have left already, blessedly, and the tavern was quiet once more. Kenny seemed eager to continue bothering Craig— that is, until the mildest-mannered tavern worker sweetly called his name. 

“Oh, my darling Leopold!” He had said as he leapt away from Clyde’s plate. Craig’s eyes tracked him, flying to the other end of the tavern and sweeping his lover into his arms. It was unclear what the bartender saw in Kenny, but oh so plain how Kenny thought Butters Stotch hung the stars in the sky. 

“Nice fellows.” Clyde offered once everyone had been reacquainted with their dinner. 

Craig rolled his eyes, words tumbling out of his mouth with little regard for gentility. “No one who spends time with Eric fucking Cartman can be nice.”

“I don’t know.” Token said. His tone was taunting, and the rest of the table just laughed as he said: “Maybe they keep him around for free food.”

The rest of dinner passed without anything to note— Jimmy plucked on his lute as Craig finished his meal, and checked with the barmaid before traipsing out the door and down the dirt path. He thought he remembered where the botanist’s was, squeezed between tudor buildings. The swimming behind his eyes had stopped as soon as he got fresh air, blessedly — so by the time he got to the shop, nothing even really hurt. Still, he could see someone bustling inside through the dim windows. Might as well grab something.

Craig thought to knock but just pushing against the door revealed that it was unlocked, and he found himself carefully walking in. He’s first hit with a scent stronger than any he’s experienced before— something like basil, spicy and sweet, and there’s a voice saying “oh.” 

And even though night has fallen, he has the sun in his eyes, and then Craig realizes the light is standing in front of him, with shaking hands clutching a broom handle. 

An unfamiliar feeling floods Craig’s chest when he sees wide blue eyes staring up at him, framed with a warm yellow scarf and bushy yellow ears hidden in wild hair. He thinks it tastes something like nervousness. Rustling the bushes near sleeping wolves. He tries valiently to remain stoic (as if he's had to try before), even when he points to his still-bleeding forehead. “Sorry for coming in. I need something for this.”

“Oh god! L-Let me get that! Patched up!” The words exploded out of the miqu’ote man in front of him, and he was fast as a hurricane. His grip was strong on Craig’s forearm as he dragged the tall man forward and pushed him into a stool. Within seconds, a new wetness was pooling into Craig’s hairline, stinging and cold.

The botanist — Craig assumed he was the botanist — had peeled the hat off of Craig’s forehead and his stare was deep, as though he could heal the cut just with a look. He was hunched over Craig in a way that looked painful. With the expertness of clockwork and the fluidity of paint, he had wiped away the blood and applied a soothing salve.

“Jesus.” He finally breathed out, as if this cut would be enough to end the life of Craig of Feldspar, thief and adventurer. “Lavender Beds is s-supposed to be sa-safe! W-What do you _do_ that gets you into tr-trouble like this?”

Craig shrugged, jostling the other man’s fair arm in the process. He hoped his eyes offered apology as he answered. “Extracurricular fight. Work is fetching. I, uh, actually think I dropped something off here the other day.”

The smaller man lit up and stood, wiping the glistening off his fingers and onto his sleeves instead. Craig notices his hands had started shaking again now that they had no pot of salve to dig into. “R-Really? W-was— was it r-rabbit bones?”

“Yeah.” The memory flooded back to Craig. The simple task of skinning a rabbit and extracting its skeleton had been so mundane to him he hardly noticed even taking the quest, let alone dropping it off in front of the botany. A string tied around his lungs: a wish he had paid attention.

“C-Can you do me another favor, the-then?” The blond man had rushed over to the main counter of the store. It was like a bar set against the furthest wall, surrounded by hanging plants and covered in jars. When he returned, he was holding the stem of something. The small pine shook in his grasp, and his voice was quick. “We’ve needed more, uh, of— of this!”

Craig took the herb gently from the man’s hand, and though his mind called to inspect it, he couldn’t look away from the ocean of the botanist’s eyes. 

He’d take any excuse to come back, Craig realized slowly, as his mouth sounded out: “Sure thing.”

Craig hardly realized he didn’t even get the botanist’s name before his boots were leading him out the door and to the closest hillside. His eyes, tired as they were, searched diligently for anything matching the smokey scent in his hand. These hills were just on the edges of the Lavender Beds, and coated the whole town in their perfume. If the herb was anywhere, it was probably here, and he wouldn’t rest until he had found it.

It wasn’t until dawn that Craig discovered he had been stepping on a patch of it the whole time. He allowed himself just a moment of sullen misery before picking as much as his pockets could hold. In the warm blues of morning, he easily makes it straight to the botany door, pushing in though no sound came from inside. 

And in there he found the silent sun again, whose smile was so wide Craig felt like he would stay awake forever if he asked. The botanist shyly asked if Craig would be so kind as to pick another herb for him, and Craig agreed for the payment of a name. With the word _Tweek_ echoing in his ears, Craig found himself on the increasingly-familiar hillsides. The afternoon sun warmed his back and his tongue felt coated in honey.

When Craig returned with the name still on his lips and wide bay leaves in his fists, he stayed longer to watch Tweek work. Immediately the leaves joined more stems in a mortar. Tweek’s shoulders worked diligently at grinding them into a powder, like ivy snow. It smells now of a hundred different things. Craig, leaning against the bar, couldn’t find it in him to care. The botanist worked steadily. His blue eyes snuck to Craig as he worked pounding herbs into powders, mixing it with oils and creams. 

Craig even felt excitement brew in his belly, pure and unadulterated, when Tweek conjured a small cloud to water the succulent plants that adorned the botany’s countertops. The weather magic made heavy the air in the room. It was warm, like a blanket, and the pleasantness of it scratched. 

And so, Craig’s days passed as they used to, but now adorned. Wake up, enjoy a breakfast underwritten by Token, see if quest bulletins had been posted, glare at Eric Cartman, and spend time with Tweek. Whether its searching for another herb on the hillside or just enjoying a cup of coffee— beans grown behind the shop and brewed by Tweek’s own hand— Craig hesitantly learned to enjoy this new routine. 

It’s odd, too, since the botany brings out conversation in Craig. Conversation he can hardly recall for how ordinary it feels, how comfortable it is. He and Tweek enjoy each other’s company in the plainest sense of the word. So what pains him now is not interaction with others, or even Eric Cartman. It’s interrupting Tweek’s lessons on herbal languages by leaving for the tavern. The rooms are musty, there, and don’t smell of basil, and there isn’t a smiling sun asking him for rosemary or thyme or sage. 

And it's funny, on a night so similar to their first, when the sky tastes like peach and wine, and Tweek’s hands are shaking around a broom — he offers truth in several ways.

“I was terrified when you walked in here that day.” He said, and Craig feels a swell of pride like he always does when Tweek doesn’t stutter. The blond had told him once his words only stumble around people he’s scared of. Craig adores not being that— even as Tweek teases him: “You’re scary _looking_!”

Craig’s offense leaded him to laugh, and hide behind a valiant middle finger. Tweek smiled, and Craig smiled wider, and Tweek said: “But... yeah, like that. You’re not scary like that.”

The sound of a kettle joins in their laughter, and with practice Craig leaps behind the counter and pours them both a cup. He was never much for tea— or anything other than mead, really, but Tweek offered him a spearmint cup. And what was he going to do, say no? Night falls as quickly as Craig takes his first sip, tiredness stinging like the scalding liquid on his lips. And a struggle was born: chain pulled taut between wrists, hands aching to come together because pulling apart was too hard. 

(And it was an apt metaphor considering he— for whatever reason— couldn’t stop glancing down at Tweek’s hands, all calloused and bandaged).

Tweek’s sky eyes caught a glimpse of their inky brother out the window. “Time flies when you’re having fun!”

“Fuck me.” Craig groaned. His teacup found home on the counter, and his cheek in his hand. His mind followed the path back to the tavern, up the steps and into a dark room that smelled of lamp oil. “I know it’s only like ten steps to bed, but… that’s ten steps too far.”

Tweek stared back at Craig, laughter playing at the corner of his lips, but something else was brewing behind his eyes. His fingers started playing with the fraying edges of his sleeves. “You could always stay here.”

“Spare room?” Craig asked through a mouthful of tea. Some escaped, dribbling out with the words and Craig turned a bright red as Tweek’s laughter turned so genuine. 

“No, no.” He said, any discomfort inexplicably melted by Craig’s teasing glare. “But… you know I don’t mind sharing.”

And Craig feared that Tweek could hear his heart beat against loud against his ribcage now— faster and harder and almost painful. He didn’t need to force his smile, though, as he responded, “Sure. That sounds fine.”

Craig followed his gentle footsteps towards the back of the shop, up a staircase with steps worn and creaking. It’s not a long stairwell, by any means, and leads quickly to the second floor of the botany. While Craig felt the store downstairs was wide and open, the upper room was small: just enough for a trunk, a mirror, a bed in the corner. The floor was covered in patchwork, and Craig couldn’t tell what was rug and what was clothes. He heard Tweek whisper out an embarrassed apology, but it’s quickly forgotten when Craig’s eyes find where the light in the room is coming from.

“Wow.” A little window, round and low, hangs over the side of the bed and frames the elegant moon. Craig, unthinking, pulls himself on to the half-made bed. Calloused fingers find their way to the cold glass, and his nose is practically bumping the window as he peers out to the night sky. 

_What a view_. It’s like they were suddenly in the clouds themselves, miles over the Lavender Beds, hanging with the stars. Craig ignores the warmth of the town below, though. Enamored, he peered at the constellations, as though close enough to touch. Tweek had followed him on to the bed— his bed, Craig belatedly realized— and he was squeezing in under Craig’s arm to get a view too. The taller man shifted quickly, letting Tweek take up half the window. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. What’s so exciting out there?” He could see Tweek’s eyes tracing the road, up and down old stone buildings and thatched roofs. Craig corrected him with a silent finger, pointing up into the inky sky. 

Tweek breathed out a “Pretty.” Craig didn’t understand the wonder splaying across the blond’s face, though— it’s his room, his window. Had he never seen the stars before, like this? But the sharp thought was gone in a guilty flash. Craig had no room to judge someone seeing with new eyes.

“That’s Perseus.” He cleared his throat, thick with emotion, with the astrological designation. “You see that bright star right… there? That whole line is him.”

“Beautiful.” Tweek’s words seemed to just be breath at this point. His breath lightly fogged up the window, and the sky looked like an oil painting through it. It was silent for a moment, Craig’s eyes tracing past Perseus and up Andromeda, chained to her rock. Tweek found his voice, and broke the quiet. 

“Do you think people can get up there?” Tweek asked, as though they already weren’t. Craig pulled his gaze away from the night sky to look down at the man sitting next to him. His teeth found his bottom lip, and he thought.

“I hope so.” He finally decided to say, now unsure if he was able to tear his eyes away from the starlike being next to him. His eyes seemed reluctant to move at all, just on a track between the sky and the man. “I’d want to.”

“I don’t blame you,” Tweek replied gently, and then he said again, “It’s beautiful.” 

Craig felt a compulsion to _reveal_ blossom within him, as if Tweek had said the magic words to relight anxiety in his chest, climbing up his throat quickly. (Upon reflection, Craig wondered if it was the words, or the way he had said them). But the welcoming black of the night sky was quickly becoming a void, and Craig pushed away from the window violently. He hopped off the bed, and started removing his outer layers, and almost wished he could go past his thin blousy shirt and shed his skin, too. 

“It is beautiful.” He felt a need to explain, to himself as much as Tweek, whose eyes he could feel on him. His back was still to the window. “But... hm. It might not be as beautiful up close.”

Tweek pursed his lips, and his head tilted into his hand. Craig could hear him shift, and in his minds eye saw him prop his shoulder on his knee. The words that flowed from him were thoughtful. “I think most things are.”

“But the closer you get to things, the more flaws you can see in them.” Each word was a knife to the briar growing in his lungs. Craig cracked his knuckles, one at a time, for want of something to do. He turned around to see Tweek staring at him with wide eyes.

“You don’t think flaws can be beautiful?”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to stare, the green of his eyes hardly visible with the way the light missed him. “What?”

“Like.” There was a sort of desperation to Tweek’s voice, as he searched for a way to explain what didn’t fit words. Finally, his shaking hands pointed back to the window. “Perseus.”

Craig followed the direction of the action, crawling back on to the bed to watch Tweek’s fingers trace stars against the glass. “Nothing about it lines up right, it’s all a little crooked, but it’s still beautiful, right?”

“Yeah.” Craig nodded gently, eyes falling down to Tweek, even as he tried to train them to the stars. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“So.” There was a heaviness to this syllable, like Tweek was letting out something within him. Craig still stared at him, their eyes searching for something in the other. An invitation, an explanation, anything. It seemed that both found more questions lurking than answers. 

“So.” Tweek repeated, more forcefully this time. He pulled away from the cold window, and Craig saw a shiver go through him. Tweek’s pensive look turned gentler, and he started pulling at his scarf. “We ought to get to bed, huh?”

Bed. Right. What they were on, and what they were up here for. Craig had already stripped down to what he would sleep in, and he averted his eyes as Tweek did the same. A few small words from the blond let Craig know that he could have either side of the bed, or the whole thing, if he wanted.

Craig chose the window side, for the view.

Within minutes, Tweek was laying beside him, and the stiffness in his shoulders soon proved infectious. Craig forced himself to mumble out a “Good night, Tweek” and stitch his eyes closed before his mind wandered even a step. He couldn’t tell if Tweek told him “sleep tight,” too, or if he dreamed it. If he had imagined it, it was that night’s only dream. 

Morning broke as quickly as night had fallen, and Craig woke to ribbons of sunlight waving over his eyes. Nature’s alarm clock seemed to have already woken his bed partner, and Craig took the moment to stretch and survey the room in daylight. The room seemed messier now, clothes strewn along every surface, floor included. There were wood figures, half-whittled, half-painted, decorating the only bureau not bearing fabric. The mirror in the corner was cracked in several different places. Eight blue eyes stared back at him. 

It was chaotic, but in a way that welcomed. Like the space knew something. Craig couldn’t figure out how to say what it knew in English words, and he still hadn’t woken up well enough to try. 

Another stretch, and Craig felt satisfied. Even with how he slept stiff as a board, Craig still felt like he was meeting the day refreshed. As he gathered his clothes and hung them on their respective body part, he could hear Tweek humming in the shop below. Humidity travelled up the stairs, and Craig realized how late it already was. Stumbling down, Craig finds Tweek dragging a cloud behind him as he sweeps, killing two chores with one stone. A creaky stair alerts the blond to Craig’s presence, and blinding smile Tweek is welcoming him to the new day. Seems like he slept well, too. 

Craig immediately throws himself into helping around the shop: barbacking kegs of coffee from the brew room to storage, re-rolling bandages strewn unevenly on the shop counter, and counting out four knobs of ginger root for some poustice Tweek would start on later that afternoon. He felt helpful, genuinely helpful, for the first time since coming to Lavender Beds. Even without gold, it satisfied. 

It just seemed being around Tweek had introduced many good things into Craig’s life, satisfaction being only the start of the list. He was certainly more conscious about his health, actually making sure to bandage up when necessary, and he was certain that he smiled more. 

(Clyde had once famously said that making Craig smile was like flying a pig up to the moon. It seemed Tweek was able to sew wings on to Clyde himself, then, and guide him towards the stars). 

One of the new habits, however, was not as welcome as the others. Craig now had a penchant for speaking before his mind noticed. And while Craig never saw himself as calculated, per se, he did like to think before acting. Something about this new friendship distracted him enough to not live up to that standard. And that is how, on a day like any other, Craig found himself injecting something new. “Would you like to go to the tavern with me tonight?” 

It’s asked casually, but with after word Craig’s mind realizes it needs to rush to a panicked state. Tweek stares up at the tall man, right hand still grinding ginger with a mortar. He looks confused. “What?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see you out, ever.” Craig hid behind a shrug. His fingers found some ginger, dropped on the counter, and started rubbing it between. Sticky. “Just wanted to know.”

“Well,” The grinding motion slowed, and the clicking of the mortar against pestle lost its rhythm. There was a thoughtfulness on Tweek’s face, but it only took seconds for him to answer. “I might. Do you usually go alone?”

Craig shook his head, nervousness blooming within him. He hoped he was selling the idea, but it felt like the night was slipping away. “No, my friend Clyde is almost always there, and Token, and Jimmy. You, uh, don’t have to come if it’s too much—”

“Pressure?” Tweek finished for him with a nervous laugh. Craig saw his ears twitch, shifting the hair around them, just barely. He braced himself for rejection, but the preparation was for naught. “It sounds nice. I’ll come.”

Craig almost ached for the refusal he was expecting, even as a quiet thrill filled his chest. Tweek didn’t seem to be following the script. Craig wondered if perhaps he had just written it wrong. 

“Cool.” He eloquently replied, a sharp nod accompanying it. Tweek responded with another laugh, this one breathy and out of his nose. His smile took up his whole face. 

The rest of the day goes by painfully slow and frighteningly quick all at once— Tweek seemed ready to leave all day, and Craig couldn’t wrap his head around how it was already closing time by the time it was. The sun had hardly touched the earth’s edge when Tweek was whisking out the door and taking a familiar trek to the tavern, Craig leading from behind. Even with the speed at which they left the botany, everyone else still had beaten them there. Familiar faces filled familiar spots around a familiar wooden table— but each face had a curious look Craig wasn’t used to. 

He immediately felt defensive: each of his friends looked poised to do _something_. Craig didn’t know what, but he didn’t trust it, and he was practically glued to Tweek’s back by the time they reached the table.

“Craig,” Clyde greeted. His voice was expectant and expression even more so. Craig rolled his eyes, silent until he had made sure Tweek had a seat, and that his was right next to it. Craig’s hand instinctively went to Tweek’s back, rubbing slowly to try to ease his shaking.

“Gentlemen, this is Tweek. The botanist.” Tweek waved faintly, eyes jumping from man to man around the table as Craig introduced them. “That’s Token, Jimmy, Clyde, and,” he took a moment to let out a heavy sigh. “For some reason, Kenny.”

Each of the introduced men smiled warmly back at the botanist, and Tweek visibly relaxed. With introductions over, conversation began its natural flow again, and Tweek quickly grew comfortable in its waters. 

“Craig told me you’re a b-bard!” He was saying to Jimmy, his legs bouncing faster than seemed humanly possible. “I love the lute, I always wished I could play. On-only harpsichord though.”

The barmaid is coming over within seconds, bringing everyone their usual— Clyde must have ordered for him, Craig realizes when a plate is set in front of him. Without thinking, he pushes it towards Tweek, before seeing a familiar face put a plate down in front of the blond as well.

“Kenny told me you had another friend to add to your table!” Butters said as the hot plate dropped off his fingers, every word full of delight. “Consider this meal on me.” 

Butters perched on the side of Kenny’s chair, the taller blond shifting over to make room, and they shared a plate. Everyone at the table dug in violently, hunger taking precedent to camaraderie. Tweek even had stuffed his cheeks full of meat and potatoes, looking more like a chipmunk than a miqo’te. 

It’s Craig who laughs at it first, but Kenny whose laugh catches Tweek’s attention. The spitfire blond is quick to find something of Kenny’s to mock back. It’s his hideous orange coat to begin with, and from there the two are trading quips like they’re being paid to, smiles wide on both their faces. Craig hadn’t expected it, but Kenny and Tweek get on like a house on fire. 

If he weren’t so glad for Tweek to feel comfortable, Craig could have even found himself listening to those tiny whispers of _jealousy_. It shocks him really, how easy it was to admit even silently, and he hides his expression in his meal for a moment. Even when shoveling potatoes down his gullet, his hand hasn’t left the smaller blond's back. And this whole time— this whole time— Craig can’t keep his eyes off of Tweek. 

He had charmed everyone else at the table, easily laughing at Jimmy’s bad jokes and ranting passionately about the values of ginger root to Token. God, he knows he’s looking too long, and he knows he’s been too quiet, and he knows Clyde is noticing everything. But nothing seems able to break his gaze until a gust of freezing wind hits him. Out of the corner of his eye something wide and red and purple is marching into the tavern, and on instinct his expression grows sullen. Tweek finally makes eye contact with Craig (and Craig tries hard not to feel embarrassed at being caught).

He questions him with a quirk of his brows, and Craig quietly mutters: “Cartman.”

It was as if Eric had heard him: he stomped his way to where Craig was sitting, circled by his friends. Patterns repeat. Craig didn’t even bother listening to whatever the fatter man was saying, and allowed him to pull him out of his chair and into the center of the bar. He was dressed lighter today, unlike Craig who was weighed by all his equipment. When Craig snuck a glance back at a confused Tweek, Cartman’s gaze followed, and Craig felt complete dread. He readied himself.

This fight, for the first time, had stakes. 

Craig sidestepped the first punch that the man threw, the fur of his cuffs brushing against his face. Craig snarled and Cartman matched his expression, yellowed teeth framed by thin lips.

“Step off, _Eric_.” Craig spit out when Cartman stepped forward again. The shorter man— surprisingly nimble for how stocky he was— clawed out, and his hands wrapped around the leather of Craig’s wrist. Before he could realize it, Craig was forced to his knees, tattooed arm pinned painfully against his back. A whine escaped his lips.

“Oh, what was that, Feldspar?” Cartman said mockingly. His thick hair fell out of his eyes as he leaned over Craig’s glaring form. Craig’s teeth bared further, and he started to hiss out a “fuck you” before he was interrupted by a bright voice.

“He— he said to step off.” Tweek had pried his way out of the crowd and stomped up to Cartman, pushing against his fat chest and making the man stumble away from Craig. His grip let up and Craig took the opportunity to spin out of the trap, sore arm going straight to the knife on his belt. Unthinking, he threw an arm out in front of Tweek.

Cartman only took a second to steady himself before his heavy boots were clomping towards Tweek this time. Craig started to step in front of the miqo’te man before his bare torso was met with leather gloves. Craig tripped to the side, white knuckles withdrawing his favorite knife now.

“Tweek!” He grunted, air knocked out of him. He watched Cartman make his way closer to the botanist, and pushed off the bending wooden floor back to standing. The fat man stopped so close that Tweek was wincing. Cartman’s hands flexed at his sides, reaching up as though to go to Tweek’s neck. Craig started to launch forward, but the smaller man saw— and shook his head vigorously. 

“Stay back,” he demanded, and Cartman snickered. He walked forward, steps in time with Tweek’s backward stumble, and Tweek ended up pressed against a table. Craig could see _something_ in Tweek’s eyes that let him know a plan was brewing, but he couldn’t stop his body moving, knife brandished as he silently stepped behind Cartman. Inching closer, and closer, close enough to see Tweek’s shoulders shake under Cartman’s heavy glare.

“Oooh, how valiant.” Cartman mocked, and Tweek let a squeak of anxiousness slip past his lips along with something else that Craig couldn’t quite make out. His hands shook, but not from nerves this time. “You protecting your little boyfriend?”

“Agh! He t-told you.” Tweek’s voice was loud and he raised up his hands high enough to pull Cartman and Craig and the rest of the crowd’s attention to them. Craig could swear something in Tweek’s deep, deep eyes was glowing, shining a brighter blue than they had ever been before. A whisper of cold brushed against Craig’s exposed skin. That was the only warning he got before shards of ice exploded from Tweek’s hands, as he yelled: “He told you! To step! Off!”

The crowd immediately cried, falling back. Instinct had Craig raise his hands to shield his face and wonder kept him peeking through his fingers. 

Cartman staggered as icicles, some wide and others thin as a hair, shattered against his chest and arms. They deflected off of him, and one flew out of the blue and scratched against Craig’s cheek, pulling a “Fuck!” out of his lips.

Tweek’s eyes dimmed as soon as he heard Craig’s exclamation— and his look of determination turned to worry, regret. Neither Tweek nor Craig took heed of Cartman’s swift exit, nor his over-dramatic declaration that he would be back, and kick both of their asses next time. Instead, Tweek immediately ran to where Craig was crouching, and his stomach lurched when he saw the sharp metal in the monk’s hand.

“What the hell is that?” He screeched as Craig stood up, legs wobbly from the stance he had held, ready to pounce had Cartman stepped forward another inch. He looked down at the familiar blade. The handle was warm in his calloused palm.

“A knife.” Craig answered simply, shrugging it back into its holder. His eyes were pulled away from Tweek’s by a flash of scarlet: Clyde waving the pair back to their usual table. A new notch had been marked into the side. The score. Craig 7, Cartman 0. (Craig wondered if it counted as a win since Tweek was the one who did everything).

Looking around, Craig realized that the crowd had all but disappeared. Some followed Cartman out of the tavern while others turned to their tables. But Craig still stepped closer to Tweek so he could be the only one to hear: “Wanna tell me what hell that was?”

“No, not right now.” Tweek answered immediately, head twitching against his shoulder for a second. In a matter of seconds, the botanist had his gloves pulled off and his fingers froze against Craig’s bicep, and he dragged him out of the tavern and down a path already worn with Craig’s bootprints.

Craig made no effort to slow down even as his droning voice offered some resistance. “Woah, woah. Where are we going?”

“You’re _hurt_?” Tweek glanced back at him like he had grown a second head. Craig’s brows pulled together, as confused— until he remembered the icicle flying past his face. 

Craig had forgotten all about the cut, a line of red drawn right under his eye. It barely stung, even as he touched it, but it was cold. “Not really. It’s hardly a scratch.”

“Gah! I don’t care? It’s not good.” They had been walking hardly five minutes before reaching Tweak & Son, the namesake letting go of Craig’s arm to shakily force a key into the lock, and leading them into the dark building. “It could get dirty. It could get b-bigger. It could get infected. And then that stupid scratch from a stupid fight will— agh! Be the thing to kill you!”

“A little scratch from some magic ice won’t kill me.” Craig responded patiently, ignoring the awkward warmth that pooled in his stomach as Tweek’s worry settled into his shoulders. Tweek rolled his eyes, but didn’t respond. He gestured for Craig to follow him behind the counter, and almost pushed him onto a stool.

Craig felt something push between his shoulder blades— a carved drawer handle, he realized. Tweek had one open on the other end of the counter, and he dragged another stool on his way back. His shoulders hunched as he plopped down in front of Craig, making him seem more slight than he really was. The moon was the only thing offering Tweek and Craig any light, but it was dim and pink, like someone had bled over her. 

Even in the shadows Craig recognized the familiar rag that Tweek was grabbing and the scent of something sharp— to clean wounds, Tweek had explained before, even though they didn’t feel cleaner. It just stung.

“The ice itself isn’t—isn’t magic.” Tweek’s hands had started to warm up a little bit more, and the damp rag with it. The balmy night air had seeped into the shop, and everything back here smelled like coffee grounds and oil. “You know I can conjure weather.”

“Just didn’t expect to see it like that.” Craig shrugged and Tweek took that as a sign that his cleaning was done. The rag flopped gracelessly onto his lap and Tweek dabbed a few drops of oil onto the palm of his right hand. Two fingers took the oil from palm to Craig’s cheek again. It was juniper and something else, to help prevent scarring, Tweek had said one time. Craig even had a bottle that he carried with him, now. 

Tweek shrugged too. His voice was lower than normal and his eyes unreadable. “You told him to step off.”

“I did.” Craig leaned a little into Tweek’s ministrations. It still felt unnecessary, but who didn’t like a little TLC now and again. His voice held no gruffness, only warning, as he chided the blond man. “You shouldn’t have gotten involved, though. Cartman is dangerous.”

Tweek scoffed a little, brows raising. His hand stilled. “I can obviously handle myself.”

“I’m not saying that.” Craig quickly backtracked. He couldn’t stop himself from shrugging again, as his voice reached down and shuffled through words that just didn’t quite fit. He settled for a mumble of “I don’t know.” 

But Tweek’s sarcastic smile turned into a genuine laugh, small but full. “You weren’t half bad.” He teased, and Craig quirked up the corners of his mouth. 

Tweek’s hand shifted gently with the smile. It has lingered so long on Craig’s face that it felt like it belongs there. Thoughtlessly, Tweek brushes his thumb against Craig’s cheekbone, so sharp it could draw blood, before pulling back. And Craig, eyes low, almost followed him. He missed the warmth. When his mind caught up with his movements, his green eyes shot open to meet Tweek’s. They were wide and bright and warm, like summer puddles, worn into stone. His fair brows raised again, but in what looked like wonder this time. Craig just furrowed his, and pulled back. 

“What can I say, I’m good in a fight.” He said, after clearing his throat, trying to clear whatever sweet air surrounded him. God, this whole place just always smelled like _something_. If he spent too long here, his clothes would even carry floral perfume, herbal and always with that dark tinge of coffee. 

Craig couldn’t find any part of him that wanted to complain about that, though. 

Tweek laughs again, and Craig offers a chuckle to join it. With a casual grin, Tweek stood from his stool and pushed it closer to the counter to create a walkway. Adjusting his scarf, he casually offered: “You can stay the night here, if you want.” 

Craig nodded his assent. He followed Tweek up familiar wooden stairs, careful to not step on a familiar creaky spot, to the familiar room where a bed stood rumpled and unmade. It was even darker up here. The moon faced away from the window tonight.

The two men lazily pulled the outer layers of clothes from their bodies, dropped into the woven fabrics and downy pillows within seconds. It wasn’t huge, but big enough for the pair to fit. The sliver of distance between them didn’t seem to be there in the warm night’s air. With only a hum of goodnight, Craig was drifting off to sleep in moments. 

His dreams smelled like juniper, and were covered in ice, but Craig could feel someone holding him, and he still felt warm.

When Craig awoke, it was to the smell of coffee. He followed it down the stairs, bleary eyes only taking him where memory recalled, and a scalding cup was pushed into his hands by the sun. 

“Thanks.” He murmured, the pads of his fingers running against the fine carving that tattooed the mug. Each was branded with a laurel branch encircling a “T & S.” The question fell out of Craig’s mouth before his tired brain could register: “Hey, why is this place called Tweak and _Son_? You hiding a kid from me?”

Tweek snorted into his own coffee, brilliant laughter muted the a mug in sun-kissed hands. 

“I _am_ the kid.” Craig quirked his brow curiously, and Tweek obliged: “My father opened a brewery here, and then decided to expand into Uh’dal. He left me here to take over, but.” He paused to take a sip. “I didn’t care much for b-brewing, so I started botany-ing.”

“Nice.” Craig said with a nod. The coffee was delicious for sure, but there was already a tavern in town. Tweek was blessed that his passion also acted as necessary healthcare. “Good business decision.”

“What about you?” Tweek asked, scooting his own stool next to where Craig was perched. Their elbows brushed, and static bruised them.

“Huh?” It took Craig a moment to comprehend the question, as sleep still had its tendrils wrapped tightly around his thoughts, and Tweek himself was taking up the few that were freed. “Oh. My family is in Coerthas. I haven’t seen them in a few years, I dunno.”

“Oh.” Tweek almost looked mournful but Craig couldn’t quite place why. After all, they were both orphans of choice. Craig nudged him with his shoulder, eliciting a squeak out of the smaller man.

“It’s fine. I wanted to leave. My parents were good, just.” And now Craig felt embarrassment crawl up his throat like he hasn’t felt since days before Gridania. His fingers rolled inward, tapping against his palms, a tic he picked up from Tweek. “I don’t know. I didn’t really live up to what they wanted from me.”

“Oh. Yeah, I know the feeling.” Tweek didn’t leave room for a breath before he replied softly. His own shoulder knocked against Craig’s now. “But, I bet if they could see you now, they— they’d be proud.”

And there it was again— warm honey being poured into his lungs, dripping down his ribs— the same feeling from last night that enveloped him and drowned him. His response was his coffee cup dropping against the wood of the counter. He breathed out a gentle goodbye, and Craig slipped upstairs to get dressed again. His clothes had been imbued with the smell of coffee, now, and— again— he couldn’t find anything in him that wanted to complain. 

(He almost wanted to complain about _that)_. 

Craig had all the intention of meeting up with Token that day. It had been ages since he bought a good knife set— one of his now was duller than the other, and needed a little love shown to it in the form of a hammer. He followed the path towards the tavern, veering out of the way only towards the quest board. Perhaps he could make a little coin that day also. 

It was then that he noticed the fragile paper flapping in the breeze. Its tacks seemed ready to let the thin sheet loose at any moment, and easily relented when Craig’s fingers tugged it off of the board. Handwriting, careful and stiff, tattooed the yellowed paper: _One blood pepper needed. Please return to Tweak & Sons. _

Craig’s eyes fell upwards to see these familiar words, painted and flaking, on a signpost above. He pushed through Tweak & Son’s creaking door and his boots found familiar grooves. It smelled like aloe and coffee and cloves and Craig admitted to the excitement that was budding in his belly. For so long now, Tweek had been the one giving, giving, giving to Craig— bandages and poultice for bruises, and potions and tonics, and kindness and gentleness and understanding, and for the first time Craig felt like he was really going to return the favor. Bay leaves from the hillside couldn’t be enough. 

Tweek needed something. And Craig could give it to him.

Someone was chatting with Tweek at the store’s counter, covered in woolen red. The blond’s voice carried through the entire store, like the sunlight that splashed through diamond-soldered windows on Tweak & Son’s scuffed wooden floor. Craig stomped forward to shove the man aside— Stan Marshwalker, he realized belatedly— before dropping the sheet in front of the shorter man at the bar. His flaxen hair was bright even in the storefront’s dim light, and Craig noticed his hands were tapping out an errant rhythm against the counter’s edge.

“I’d like to take this quest.” Craig said, his voice low. Stan behind him groaned something and stomped out of the botany, leaving Craig and Tweek alone. The latter blinked owlishly. 

Tweek’s eyes were dark, so dark that their blue was almost an afterthought, undertow dangerous and sending Craig out to sea. 

Or, up a mountain to get a blood pepper. Whatever. Craig cleared his throat, reaching out to peel the quest sheet from the counter when Tweek suddenly grasped his wrist and stilled his hand.

“Just a m-moment.” He said, eyes dropping. His shaking hands rummaged in his pockets before procuring a pencil. He started scratching something else on the paper— directions, Craig realized, and then Tweek spoke again. “It’s dangerous up there. I’m not sure i-if you should go. I mean… I didn’t ask you for a reason.”

Craig grunted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His blade tapped against an apothecary bottle on his belt, half-filled with some fruity brew that Tweek had given him for protection against fever, and also gnomes, somehow. He nodded tersely, honeydew eyes avoiding Tweek’s. The concern in his voice made Craig feel like that fever was crawling up from his stomach, through his heart and coloring his cheeks. 

“I’m serious, Craig. The m-mountains are no joke. This pepper is somewhere— You could die.” Tweek’s words were clipped and his voice cracked. He had stopped writing but didn’t let go of Craig’s wrist. His fingers had stopped tapping, and settled for rubbing against Craig’s gloves, warming the cracked leather. “You can’t go alone.”

Craig rolled his eyes, guilt panging in his stomach when Tweek responded with an annoyed huff. 

“I’m sure I’ve been through worse, alone.” Craig mumbled anyway. When he finally dared to meet Tweek’s eyes again, he realized they were staring right under his own. The scratch from last night. When Tweek inhaled, Craig was sure he was about to call the whole thing off, make up something about being able to find a replacement ingredient— but the nervousness in Tweek’s eyes turned to understanding, even if its ankles still stood in puddles of fear. 

“Well, it’s cold up there.” Tweek pulled his hand back and Craig immediately missed its warmth. His heartbeat became uneven without the other man’s gentle rubbing to guide it. Craig watched curiously as the botanist untangled his scarf from his neck, heavy, the color of turmeric— and without warning, it was roped around his own and Tweek was brushing down his rumpled black hair. “There. Now you won’t f-freeze to— to d-death.”

The scarf smelled like violets and jasmine and coffee and soap, and a little bit like Tweek himself. Craig’s eyes couldn’t help but close as he inhaled its gentle scent, and his fingers reached up to learn its worn edges. Craig had never seen the miqo’te man without it on, and imagined he slept in it half the time. He hoped his voice expressed his gratitude when he finally found the presence to speak: “I’ll come back, Tweek.”

The botanist remained still, trembling only found in his voice. “How are you so sure?” 

And even though he wasn’t sure— he wasn’t sure at all— Craig allowed his mouth to quirk up into a soft smile that only grew when Tweek matched it. “Because you’ll kill me if I don’t.”

And then with a gentle nod and a ruffle of Tweek’s soft hair, Craig was out the door. 

He followed a path, the heaviest worn, to the tavern at the end of town. Tweek said to not go alone— and if Clyde was to be found anywhere, or to be talked into anything, Craig’s best bet would be there.

He couldn’t believe Tweek had even posted the damn thing on the public board. He grabbed stuff for the botany all the time— how would a pepper be any different, save for taking a few days longer? Craig sure as hell wasn’t about to let Stan fucking Marshwalker be the one to swoop in and save the day. 

Not that Craig was saving days. Just fetching a pepper. No matter what the scarf around his neck tried to tell him. 

“We’re going to the north side of the mountain.” Craig slammed the quest paper in front of Clyde, edges curling from its time in the sun. Clyde stared up at Craig, mead’s foam dripping off his chin, and confusion evident even in the dim light of the tavern. 

Craig used his eyes’ adjustment as welcome distraction from Clyde, rambling on about how ridiculous it was to expect him to drop everything and join him on some silly fetch quest for hardly any gold. As he spoke, incessant and unending, Craig was able to call over a barman, order a meal, and have it dropped below Clyde’s ranting lips. Silence was finally bestowed upon the tavern again, and Craig hardly stirred it, speaking lowly. 

“Please come with me,” he said. He could see consideration in Clyde’s eyes, but another forkful of buttery potatoes had him convinced. 

“You owe me.” Was all he said through his mouthful of food. 

Craig nodded towards the plate, practically two full meals in itself. “Consider it payment in advance.”

Clyde grinned at his friend. No matter what he complained about, no matter how often he spoke of “owing,” the man grew ripe with the idea of adventure. The indignation at the invitation was already maturing to excitement. “We’ll go with haste?” 

“Tomorrow.” Craig said with a nod and a swipe of a green bean, and with that he’s up. Tomorrow would be here soon, and he needed to be ready.

It was a whirlwind afternoon of packing— he had to get a few things shaken out by Token, had to scrounge enough coins for travelling food, and had to find his heaviest coat for the brisk mountain mornings. Craig kept checking the sun, slowly slipping away before him, and he realized he’d have no time to visit the botany before bed. He was in bed before he even recognized it, and sunrise came with as little warning. 

Craig hardly slept but still vibrated with anticipation. It’s early morning, sun barely cracking the sky, and Clyde is raring to begin their trek as well— but Craig demanded they stop by the botany. Clyde flanks his left side, and drags a chocobo along with him. They’re good pack animals, everyone claims, but Craig never really cared for them. It’s not like a pepper is going to take a lot of effort to carry, anyway— rather, it seemed Clyde wanted a secondary transportation option.

(Looking up at the slope of the mountain, and seeing it glare back at them with sharp peaks… it’s not like Craig could blame him.)

“D-do you have the map? And th–the instructions for picking, you need to be careful!” Tweek was saying to both men, practically patting Craig down to check that all vital supplies were in order. “There’s thorns! And if you touch your eyes after touching the pepper, you could b-burn your corneas, or—”

“Tweekers.” Craig gently pulled the blonde off him, arms spreading wide to show the array of things he had on his person: “I have the map. I have gloves. I promise I won’t touch my eyes.”

“Tweekers?” Clyde breathed out. Craig chose to pretend threefold: to not have said anything, to not have heard Clyde, and to also no longer exist. 

Tweek seemed to not notice, his mind preoccupied on the journey. Nervous blue eyes jumped between the men and the mountain, and he checked off everything Craig was holding. Poultice, potion, lotion, bandages, bags. After a moment, the blond finally allows a heavy exhale to leave him, acting in place of “okay.” He turned to the chocobo: “This guy going with you?”

“Clyde got him just to get us out of town.” As if those words were an invitation, Tweek’s hand found the bird’s delicate feathers. The lemony bird made Tweek’s skin look even paler by comparison, nails scratching along under the creature’s upper coat. The chocobo made delighted chuffing noises, thanking the blond for his ministrations. 

“He seems to like you,” Craig pointed out helpfully. Watching Tweek gleefully pet the chocobo made Craig feel a strange desperation, as if he wanted to be involved. His ribcage felt too small for his chest. 

“Hey, _Tweekers_ ,” Clyde says, a mocking glance being thrown Craig’s way. It took several ounces of energy for Craig to not respond with a middle finger. “I bet he likes you because he thinks you’re a chocobo, too!”

Tweek’s eyes go as wide as moon, still hanging on to the corner of the morning sky above them. “W-what!”

“You kind of look like a chocobo!” Clyde says, not in any way unkind. He can’t help the laugh that pulls out of his barrelled chest, echoing on the empty town streets. “It’s the hair. All. Poof!” Clyde’s hands demonstrate his description, leading past his own head to explode out. And... damn it, he really wasn’t wrong. With wild, flaxen locks and sunken eyes, Tweek could have been the pack-bird in another life. Clyde’s description moved Craig’s feeling out of his ribcage and to his funny-bone.

Tweek turns to Craig, mouth agape in indignation, only to find the dark-haired man stifling a laugh. Craig hoped apology was evident in his eyes, but Tweek’s face still held betrayal. He groaned. “You too?”

“I mean.” Craig cleared his throat, as if to wipe his face of any emotion. It was strange how habitual that used to be, and now it seemed practically impossible to clam up. But, years of practice led to success, and after finding his most expressionless expression, he said: “You kind of look like a chocobo.”

“Agh!” Tweek’s hands clapped against his thighs in desperation, and he looked to the chocobo for solidarity. It almost looked like the bird was laughing, too, chuffing falling away in favor of loud “kueh”s. Craig could hear people in the homes nearby starting to stir, and mentally apologized. 

“You’re a cute chocobo, though.” Unthinking, Craig reached his gloved hand out to play at a strand of Tweek’s yellow hair. The soft lock barely brushed through his fingers before Craig realized what he was doing— and, as if burned, he pulled back. Tweek stood before him, frozen, and very, very red. 

Craig cleared his throat again, and again, desperate for centering. He could feel Clyde’s eyes on both him and Tweek, could practically see him eat this all up, and a flush crawled up his own cheeks. Craig met Tweek’s eyes, full of shock and something else that he prayed was a positive emotion. It felt wrong to only give a curt nod, even though that’s all Craig wanted to do. Heart betrayed his head, and Craig found himself moving again without permission. Gently, he pulled Tweek in for a short hug, and whispered a goodbye into his chocobo-yellow hair. 

And he doesn’t leave Tweek a moment to breathe, let alone think, before Clyde was sitting atop the chocobo and Craig was leading the both out of the Lavender Beds and to the rocky mountain path.

“Goodbye!” Tweek would call after them, right before the edge of town. Craig almost thought he imagined it, but Clyde was calling _sayonara_ back, so — a comfort settled in the bottom of Craig’s stomach, and with renewed determination, they left town.

Determination that... only can last so long. Craig had been up the mountain before, though on the other side, and not quite as far. It fucking sucked then, and he had been pretty certain it was going to fucking suck now, and he was being proven completely right. Clyde’s enthusiasm had been dampened by wind and exhaustion. Craig just felt blessed it hadn’t rained— nothing worse than wearing wet leather— but he didn’t feel _quite_ blessed enough to not let out a “fuck” every few miles or so. 

The chocobo, even, was wilting by the time they reached about where they needed to be. It was perhaps another hour’s climb, and they should be at high enough elevation for the pepper to grow. Night was falling, and so too were the two men and their bird. 

Their path had taken them right up to a small forest, a shelter pre-built. Clyde sent the chocobo down the way they came as Craig expertly unfolded their sleep sacks. Clyde now set up a fire, mumbling to himself, “Kindling first, then tinder. Kindling then tinder.”

“Doing all right?” Craig grunted, reaching above him to hack off some suspicious branches with his knife. He tossed them Clyde’s way, and within minutes a fire popped and smelled of pine. Being best of friends, they had adventured for years together, now, and their routine was carved into stone. Craig and Clyde were in their sacks before a lesser man would even have designed a spot to sleep.

Tiredness set upon them quickly, but not quickly enough. Clyde had decided now was the time to break the pleasant quiet’s kneecaps.

“So.” A smile split his face, and in the firelight looked almost sinister. “Are you going to admit why you’re killing yourself for Tweek yet?” 

“What?” Craig’s fingers found some twigs to fiddle with, breaking between them, pressing into his palms. “I’m not killing myself.”

Clyde laughed, and sat up further. His face was properly lit now and showed expectant exuberance. “This is a pretty special job. Y’know… For someone who’s special to you.”

“Oh.” The words, like a punch, forced the breath out of Craig but he recovered with a definitive “Fuck off.” 

Craig leaned back on his elbows, ankles cracking as he rolled them slowly. Once, twice, a third time for good luck, and a fourth time because it felt good. His body was heavy against the frigid ground. Pebbles dug into his calves and Clyde’s words between his ribs. 

“I’m just saying, dude.” He was just saying. His brown hair was mussed from living under his helmet all day. “You spend the night at his place all the time.”

Craig scoffed, hand going up to his own head and combing through the tangles. He grimaced, tugging a little too hard. “You’re just jealous I have somewhere to stay for free.”

“It’s not like the local botany has a guest room.” Clyde threw right back with an unimpressed glance. That was the quandary with being friends with someone for longer than a year: they no longer put up with your shit. Craig squirmed under Clyde’s knowing look, and regretted having any friends at all.

“It’s not weird to sleep with friends!” Craig sputtered out. His hands flew to his thighs, clapping with finality. “You and I are sharing sleeping quarters right now.”

Clyde’s eyes rolled, but a smile still played on his face. No word was mocking even if Craig tried desperately to find offense. “If Tweek were here, you’d be sharing your bedroll with him.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” He muttered back. His shoulders fell back against his mat, barely protecting him from the ground. Better than nothing but— the thought flew in, unwelcome — not half as nice as Tweek’s bed. 

“Nothing! Nothing.” His friend replied soothingly. Even without looking, Craig could picture Clyde’s head shaking knowingly, his hands behind his head. “I’m just saying. I think he’s... special to you.”

“It’s not like he’s _not_ special.” Craig’s eyes had closed by this point, but his brow was still furrowed. His voice was muted, the forest swallowing the sounds. “It’s just not whatever you’re thinking.”

“Okay, Craig.” He heard Clyde lying to his side, one leg tucked under the other, just how he always sleeps. His words were thorns. “Just don’t act like you’d go on a life-threatening journey for any of the rest of us. I’m not saying it’s _bad_ you’d do it for Tweek. Just think about, y’know, _why_ you’d do it for Tweek.”

Their conversation echoed violently in Craig’s head the next morning, when a pack of wolves sent him and his companion into a viper’s nest. The men scrambled out of the shadows of woods only to be met with the shadows of wings.

And though Clyde found valiantly against the wyvern, twice his height, Craig finds himself taking the brunt of the attack. The claws of the beast whaled on him, any bared skin ribboning under its ministrations. A broad slap of its wing imprinted purple on his back; red rivulets streamed down his shoulders. Yet Craig felt nothing. It was as though he were watching a puppet of himself. Directing his body — whose swords were nothing to the dragonborn — to die for a pepper. And as he thought longer, as he fought harder, he knew Clyde spoke the truth. 

The wyvern was defeated not by blade but by fast feet. The battle quickly seemed for naught. Craig never stopped slashing even as Clyde dragged his limping body back into a forested area. It was far from where they knew. The leaves were so dark to be almost blue and the shadows were night. His weary shoulders dropped Craig beside a cardinal-colored pepper, and a little light burns bright in both men’s eyes. Instructions are barely remembered when Craig picks the plant. It feels like years to drag it into the burlap sack, but only minutes to climb down the mountain. Clyde half-carried him. 

Craig couldn’t breathe and the mountain before him was a rippling lake. And yet, once familiar cobblestone sounded under Clyde’s feet, Craig found the strength to pry himself away from his friend’s grasp. Craig didn’t think Clyde called after him, but he couldn’t be sure. His ears were dulled by the wyvern's cries. 

He barely saw where he was going. Memory took him to somewhere bright and white and smelling of basil. 

“Oh, jesus christ.” Tweek’s voice— shriller than normal— rang through his head as Craig stumbled in past a door, so heavy, so hard. The air in felt heavy on his shoulders. Tweek must have just finished watering his plants.

“I’m—” Craig cleared his croaking throat, voice as worn as his clothes. He stomped towards the counter, where Tweek stood, and carefully dropped the sack of peppers— bag dirty, untorn— onto the wood. It was amazing how Tweek’s freckles stood out so much when his face was drained of color. “I’m home.”

Craig winced as he pulled his knit hat off his head, the blue fabric crusted with dirt and dried blood. Suddenly Tweek’s wide eyes are right before him, and the man waves his hand around Craig’s hunched form wildly. His ears are pressed tightly against his head. Wordlessly, Tweek pulled Craig into the back. 

Well, not so wordlessly, Craig belatedly realized. Under the rushing of blood through his ears, he could hear Tweek muttering, consonants hard against his teeth. Without warning, he’s pushed gently onto a cot.

He’d never been into this back room before— he couldn’t tell if it was an infirmary, or a storeroom, or something else altogether. Herbs hung from the ceiling beams. Each bundle was tied with a careful, precise bow, and they swung gently. A window cast diamond shadows on the floor. Everything smelled of juniper and cadmium yellow. Yellow, yellow... like the scarf that Tweek’s dirt-stained hands carefully peeled off of Craig’s stiff form. Somehow it was the only thing to remain unharmed. Fraying was the only sign of wear, unlike the gashes and abrasions decorating the rest of his body. 

Craig shook his head. Belated realization led to belated realization until Tweek was repeating his question for the third time.

“What hurts?” He demanded, half-answering his own question by dabbing damp rags onto the lacerations down Craig’s exposed torso, rust coloring the spaces between tattooed lines. The rag was patterned with herbs and Craig’s blood. 

Tweek peeled what was left of Craig’s gloves off, revealing tan lines and a seeping, deep gash down his right arm. Nothing else hurt quite as bad as that, so Craig grunted as an answer before a cup of _something_ was poured down his throat. It tasted sweet. Cinnamon and springtime, dribbling down the side of his mouth.

“Oh, oh. Oh, jesus christ.” Tweek said again. He reached behind him to a bottle, half-filled, and slathered a poultice onto his fingers. It was so cold when he pressed it to the bruises on his face, but the bandages Tweek wrapped them with were sun-warmed. He lifted the dark haired man’s arm, peering again at the wound, and bit his lips. “Craig. I’m going to n-need to stitch that up.”

“All right.” Craig nodded, head feeling a little clearer after that tonic Tweek had given him settled in his stomach. Tweek reached behind him again, hands searching blindly until they found a black thread and a needle so thin Craig could only see the reflection in Tweek’s eyes. Nervous hands steadied as he threaded the needle and without hesitation stabbed it into Craig’s forearm. The shock of watching the blond stitch up his skin dulled the pricking of the needle and the pull of the seam. 

“This is so ridiculous. I cannot— I cannot believe that you come back, and you c-come back like _this_.” Tweek was rambling at full volume and his worry somehow soothed Craig. Like lying in a grassy field, where it’s a little itchy but still makes him feel oh, so warm. “Why did you even t-take that quest. You’re– gah! You’re r-ridiculous!” 

Too tired to be caustic, too pained to be blasé, Craig couldn’t stop the honest words from tumbling off his heavy tongue: “You needed that pepper.”

Tweek blinked up at Craig, who used to think the night sky was an apt comparison for his eyes but— no. The sky didn’t have the depth these did. The sky didn’t have emotions he could read like braille. Suddenly, Tweek had his hands on the side of Craig’s face, and he pressed their foreheads together gently. His breath was shallow. He refused to meet the monk’s gaze, eyes instead following the stitching that carved a new river down Craig’s arm. 

“You’re an idiot.” Even as his hands were still, Tweek’s voice trembled, and blue eyes stared intensely anywhere but into Craig’s. His lips, pink and ever-chapped, looked even worse than usual. Craig wished he could press his own against them. 

And then, Craig suddenly felt a pang of guilt. He wondered if he had kept Tweek awake, worrying his nail beds, sharp teeth drawing blood at the corner of his mouth as he stared into the night sky and prayed Craig was still alive. The guilt increased when Craig realized he— god, he _hoped_ Tweek had stayed up staring at the same stars that guided his way.

The two men don’t talk much more, Tweek using all his fiery energy to drag Craig up the stairs and force him into his bed. Craig thought to protest, but isn’t sure he does, groggy mind immediately fading as soon as his head hit the thin pillow. Tweek sleeps close to him, so close. So close. And his breathing is shallow. When morning breaks, Craig isn’t woken by the sun, but by the feeling of Tweek’s heart. Hard enough against his pale chest that Craig thinks it should bruise.

But, he looks peaceful in his sleep — and Craig takes care not to wake him as he slinks out of bed and down into the botany. 

He follows Tweek’s masterful movements, branded in his memory, searching for familiar cups and getting some coffee bubbling. He’s sure the smell will coax the blond awake and he dimly wonders if he should be up there, whispering good mornings in his ear. Perhaps, pressing foreheads together. Basking in the closeness of morning, under the blanket of the eastern sun —

But he’s not up there. He’s down here, pouring coffee into their usual mugs as Tweek tramps down the stairs. 

“Morning,” is all Tweek said, with a voice thick with sleep and muffled by his hands running over his face. Still, there’s a hint of a smile peeking out from behind his tired actions. Craig can’t help but to smile right back, humming his greeting and holding up a mug. So that’s how they spent half the morning— half-asleep, bodies languidly leaning against the botany’s counter. Craig knows Tweek should open his shop, should attend to his customers and his friends. But Tweek doesn’t seem in a rush to do so and Craig sure isn’t about to talk him into it. 

In the mid-morning light, things looked different. Brighter. More clear. Craig isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to be _seeing_ more clearly— but he can feel something is there. His hazy line of thinking is interrupted by a suddenly nervous Tweek. Was the coffee getting to him already? He’s hemming and hawing and clutching the handle of his cup with pale hands and Craig can’t help but reach one of his own out to trace the prominent blue veins.

“Craig, after you’re healed— healed up a little more,” Tweek finally stammers out, fingers twitching less under Craig’s soft strokes up and down the back of his hand. “Gah, I hate to ask but… I have another quest for you.”

“Whatever you need.” He answered immediately, in his mind already packing for a new trip. “Do you need it soon?”

Tweek breathes out a laugh, half indignant and half amused. “It can wait.”

“Where?”

“Up in the mountains again.” He chewed at his bottom lip, as if the words aren’t quite ready to come out yet, but they fall: “It- it will be dangerous, again, so— so I’m coming with you.”

“If it’s dangerous, you shouldn’t.” Craig says with a brisk shake of his head, matched by a wilder one from the blond. 

“I am, though”

“Tweek —”

“No _yourself_. I don’t trust you not to kill yourself this time.”

And then: a staredown. Which Craig promptly lost, totally not because he got ground coffee bean in his eye — but, in truth, he would have acquiesced regardless. It’s hard to refuse someone you fundamentally respect. And even harder to refuse someone that you _need_ to be with at all times. So, he gives a curt nod, and Tweek visibly relaxes. 

“Perhaps I can get more than Clyde to come this time,” Craig jokes, nudging Tweek’s shoulder with his own. Agh— something hurt when he did that. He really should be grateful someone with magic and painkillers is coming along next time.

“T-that would be nice,” Tweek chuckles back as he starts to clean up for the day. Mugs go in some hidden sink, plants are watered and herbs are pulled down from the ceiling and jarred and bagged and minced and diced and prepared in a thousand different ways. And all Craig does is watch, counting the pots that get filled and the poultices that get mixed. Lavender is overflowing. Basil’s almost empty. 

“Come to the tavern with me tonight,” he extended, expectant smile blooming across his face. “Help me talk them into it?” 

Tweek raised his eyebrows, a curious glint in his eyes, and his answer is only another question. “Have you even seen your friends yet?”

“No.” Craig says. “I came right here.” 

There’s a weight in these words Craig can feel. Tweek’s body seems to freeze for a moment, as if his heart needed to restart, and suddenly he’s watching Tweek with new eyes, as if every minute movement is important, every breath is brand new. But Craig doesn’t get a moment to even think about that moment before Tweek is pushing a broom in his hands and saying, “Fine, I’ll come with you tonight. But I need to work first, make y-yourself useful.” 

His sweeping is slow and useless, Craig thinks to himself while he rocks the broom back and forth in his hands. A pendulum, counting up the seconds they spend together. The sun had hardly left the midpoint of the sky when Tweek slammed his hands on the botany’s counter and says, “I don’t even want to open today.” And in Craig’s mind, what Tweek wants, Tweek should get — he offers no resistance, only brushing up some cuttings that had fallen to the floor like fragrant confetti. 

Within minutes, Tweek is locking the door shut, and they’re heading out to the tavern, close enough that hand could be in hand. 

It’s not a long night at the tavern, only a few hours. The crown jewel of the night certainly was splitting meads with Tweek — he didn’t love the taste, so he didn’t get his own, but still... he didn’t want to _not_ be joining in the fun. So Tweek would steal little sips out of Craig’s mug, and Craig would let him with a fond smile, and Clyde would give a smarmy smile every fucking time. 

Tweek did successfully talk them into the trip — Token even agreeing to outfit them all with the latest supplies. So all in all, the night at the tavern was a great success. Good food, good conversation, good friends. Clyde, Token, Jimmy — and Kenny and Butters showed up at the end of the night, sharing a seat at the table. 

By that point, everyone was well sloshed, a few too many pints bought by the wealthiest man at the table. And Craig’s eyes keep drifting to the couple on the chair in the corner, the barmaid and the bastard, Butters and Kenny. Giggling together, so blushing and bashful. He thinks to ask, what’s so funny? But he knows he wouldn’t really get the joke.

(After all, he and Tweek have plenty of inside jokes too, that no one else would get, either.)

But Craig can’t stop thinking about Butters and Kenny, not even after they left the table, not even after he left the tavern with Tweek pinned to his sticked up side, not even when they’re traipsing up the stairs and falling into bed together without a single protest from either man. He can’t stop picturing their bodies, how close they were — how much he wants that. How much he needs that. How much he wants to touch a sweet, gentle, small blond— to nuzzle into the crook of his neck and breathe together, to feel his heavy warmth in his lap and —

Anxiety spikes in his stomach, suddenly. It’s dangerous to think these things. And particularly dangerous to think them when he’s stripped down to his sleeping clothes _next_ to a sweet, gentle, small blond. 

Jesus fucking christ. That's like wyvern-level dangerous.

But he’s split four (was it four?) meads with Tweek. And Tweek is so close. And he wants. He _wants_. 

So he scoots a little closer to Tweek, a little closer than normal, the heat of their bodies mingling in the cool night air. And Tweek shifts right back, his right arm trapped against Craig’s left— he took the window spot tonight and the moon basked down on him. Before Craig knows it, Tweek is touching him. Gently. Naively. Fingers tiptoeing across his forearm and circling the boney part of his wrist, and then he’s lifting Craig’s arm as if to inspect it more closely.

Tweek’s cold hand traced up, barely pressing over the veins in his wrist and following them down. Soon, his ministrations focused on the thin lines carved into his skin, their ink looking bluer in the moonlight.

“Tattoos,” he whispered, an observation more than a question. Tweek’s second hand joined the first, helping hold Craig’s arm before him so his eyes could do the exploring. Craig felt his own fluttering closed. Still, he tried to force them open, if only to see Tweek’s gentle expression while staring at the circles running around his arm. Concentrated around his joints, his marks were jagged and dotted, and Tweek read them like braille. 

“What of?” Tweek finally asks, and Craig just pointed out the window, to the glimmering dots shining down on them. He had a few tattoos on the rest of him that weren’t celestial — a wolf on his leg, the word “fuck” on his hip (on a dare, for the record). But this arm was for the stars. 

Craig always planned to get more constellations mapped on his right arm, too. Dimly he wondered if a sprig of lavender or ginger root would look more at home there, especially next to the scar sure to form under his stitches. As Craig thinks, Tweek let the starry-arm arm drop, but didn’t stop running his fingers against it, gingerly, like he was afraid to hurt him. His hand hadn’t warmed in the slightest. Craig wondered if it could be. 

Only one way to find out, he would remember thinking, before his own hand was capturing Tweek’s as it made another pass down his wrist. His hand wasn’t much bigger than Tweek’s now-shaking one — he was just able to wrap his fingers around the palm, thumb gently stroking the soft skin along Tweek’s knuckles.

Craig could feel Tweek suppress a noise of surprise, and a smile pulled at his lips. “Sorry.” Craig said, voice low with tiredness. Tweek shivered again, and Craig squeezed his hand unthinkingly. “You seem cold.”

“I am, a little.” And with that admission, Tweek scooched a hair closer to Craig, and pulled their hands onto his own chest to prevent them from getting trapped. Craig could feel Tweek’s heartbeat beating violently against his ribs, quick like a rabbit's. He wondered if his own would feel the same way, yet also doubted it — his heart was up in his throat. 

Tweek’s heartbeat started to grow more gentle, more even (eventually), and matched Craig’s more closely. He hardly registers it, though — and he doesn’t even notice when their breathing slows in tandem. The two men fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep, under the blanket of moonlight. 

Morning comes gently, not too soon and not too late, and Craig's bleary eyes open to find his arm slung across Tweek’s still form. The blond sound asleep still, slowly breathing against Craig’s chest, and Craig isn’t sure if he’s still a little drunk for how warm and bubbling and strange he feels. He’s not ready to move yet.

As his eyes adjust to sunlight, Craig’s mind wanders, from last night’s conversation to how good dinner was to how he needs to start packing for the upcoming trip. A trip to get more stuff for Tweek, he reminds himself, as if he didn’t know. And he starts thinking about what else he could grab when he’s there, and Craig remembers Tweek could use some basil — but he doesn’t have to go up the mountain for basil. A smack of inspiration wakes Craig up fully.

Basil is something he could grab for him _today—_ like, right now. A surprise, maybe to thank Tweek for stitching him up. (As if Craig needs inspiration to want to do something for him).

He hums lowly, nudging Tweek as he unwraps from him and quietly climbs out of bed. “Tweek, I’m running out for a minute. I’ll be back.”

The tall man has enough of a mind to pull on pants and grab his coat before he’s bounding down the botany stairs— and bounding right back up, because he forgot his hat. In the few seconds he was gone, Tweek had shifted to take over the full bed, curled in on himself. His arms were wrapped tightly around his own thin torso. Craig has to force himself to turn, beg himself not to replace Tweek's arms with his own. It's a difficult argument to have with his heart — but he wins. 

The morning mist is cold on his face, and he tugs his knit hat down his forehead. He goes where he knows basil grows wild— it’s farther than other patches, but it’s where he knows Tweek likes to pick from. The herb seems almost out of season, though. Hardly any is strewn throughout the knoll on the edge of town. It takes Craig longer than he thought to find enough to fill the jar, with his back crying out for respite by the end, and fingers stained green. But Craig was undeterred, desperation bubbling by a _something_ churning in his stomach.

Excitement, he called the feeling— excitement at surprising Tweek, surprising Tweek by helping Tweek, and it’s always good to be helping Tweek.

Finally, he has enough to fill a little leather pouch that used to hold the delicate bones from a birds wing. (No reason why he kept them, they were just cool. But he doesn't need them anymore... he needs somewhere to hold the herbs). And oh, god, almost evening already, Craig realized as he walked back to a livelier town. It looked like people were making their last errands of the day. The sea in Craig’s stomach swelled and turned, and he wound the tassels of the pouch around his fingers. 

“Hey Tweekers.” Craig’s words rang under the botany’s door bell. As he walked in, he turned the “open” sign over, marking himself the last customer. A little earlier than usual, but he indulged his selfishness. Tweek had his back to the door, hair even wilder than it was this morning — he must have forgotten to comb out the bedhead again. 

“Hey Craig.” Tweek responds, voice almost muffled. He turns around, but his eyes stay trained to where he’s sweeping. The broom hardly moves over the spot. “Where have you been?” 

Craig holds up the little bag in his hand, a silent thrill sweeping through him at the reminder of his surprise. “Just went out to run some errands.” Tweek glances up to see what Craig was carrying, and mumbled something about not realizing he even left. 

“Oh. Sorry for leaving this morning, I told you but.” Craig swallowed, a small stone falling into his gut. “You must have still been asleep.”

At those words, Craig sees Tweek’s shoulders fall, and tension escapes him in a little breath. He smiles, and finally meets Craig’s eyes. There’s an apology in them, sheepish, and the hair suddenly smelled like rue. Tweek’s voice was soft, and Craig stepped closer to better hear: “S-sorry. I sleep like a rock with you there.”

“So it would seem.” The corners of Craig’s mouth turned up, expression nameless. It’s too teasing to be a smile, too fond to be a smirk.

“Coffee?” Tweek offered, almost as another needless apology. He already started moving to the pot it brewed in, leaning the broom against the wall as he gracefully wove to his spot behind the counter. 

“Sure.” Craig responded, craving its warmth in his hands more than its dark flavor. By now, the sun had drooped low in the sky. Her rays stained the floor, somewhere between peachy and gold.

“The guys were in earlier. They wanted the ointments I use on you.” Tweek said, mirth obvious even with his back facing Craig. The coffee poured like a river into stained ceramic. “Said i-it wasn’t fair you were the only one who didn’t scar.”

An eyebrow quirks up. “Heh. That’s funny.”

“ _They_ are funny.” Tweek corrected with a grin. But it was quickly replaced with an expression more pensive, the kind of look he gives a book when the words swim in front of his eyes. His words didn’t fit the rainclouds forming in his eyes. “It’s nice having them here in t-town.”

The silence between them was heavy, and shifted awkwardly around him. Craig’s mouth opened to speak even though he could tell Tweek wanted to— and it didn’t take long for his voice to cut through the silence. 

“C-Clyde said that you all would p-probably move soon, though.” His words almost collapsed in on themselves, and Tweek’s shoulders pulled up toward his ears. “Away from the Lavender Beds.”

Craig’s brows pulled together and his mouth moved before he gave it permission: “Clyde doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“You’re not leaving?”

“I dunno.” The taller man muttered, hand thoughtlessly trailing up to tug on the tattered strings of his hat. “I don’t like staying in one place for long, but...”

He trailed off, watching Tweek come from behind the counter. Two mugs of coffee steamed in his hands, and his tongue poked out between his teeth, focus tightly wound to _not spill_ as he handed one over. The cup Tweek hands him is the same one Tweek always hands him, with a little chip in the handle, smooth now from wear. A burst of affection filled Craig’s ribcage. He tried to drown it with the bitter drink.

They leaned against the counter together, like always, like always — and Tweek takes nervous sips of the coffee while Craig just allowed it to scald his palms. The blond's voice was quiet when he finally admitted: “I–I hope you stay.” 

“Yeah?” Craig asked, hope infecting his breath and coloring his eyes a more intense green. Tweek set his mug down and Craig matched the action.

"I— Yeah. W-who knows what other plants or herbs or flowers or quests I might need from you,” Tweek joked, but the brightness in his voice was too forced, and he was talking too quickly. His eyes darted between the floor and his hands, fingers tapping against each other. Craig’s brow furrowed, mouth falling open to question Tweek before he was interrupted by his memory. The nervous man’s words recalled him to the leather pouch on his belt— why he even came in. Why he even left.

“Oh. Right, um.” Craig untied the pouch deftly, the leather soft in his fingers. He reached to grab Tweek’s hand, making the shorter man squeak with surprise. His long fingers were covered in bandages and stained with something violet. He must have been crushing flowers earlier today. Gently, Craig placed the small pouch in Tweek’s palm, and slowly, slowly, closed Tweek’s fingers around it, and his own around Tweek’s. Craig can’t pull away from the tidepools in his wide eyes. 

“I noticed yesterday you were almost out of basil.” He said, Tweek’s mouth barely falling open at Craig’s words. That rush of fondness was back again, more intense than ever. It felt as if it could break his bones. “I got some for you.”

For a moment, it was silent. Craig swore neither of them were breathing, and all he could see was Tweek, staring at him with the brightest blue eyes. He doesn’t move to pull his hand out of Craig’s larger ones, and instead barely whispered a stuttering “thank you.”

Craig blinks slowly, like he’s waking in a dream, and his gaze falls just down to Tweek’s lips, chapped and tempting. And Craig can’t stop himself from leaning in, barely a few inches for how close they were already standing. His eyes fluttered shut as he felt Tweek’s hot breath against his cheek, and he pressed the faintest kiss — just a brush of skin, really — against the little corner of Tweek’s mouth.

“You’re welcome,” was all Craig could think to whisper as he pulled away. His hand left Tweek’s and he realized it was his own trembling this time. His breath was shallow.

And it was taken away when Tweek’s hands, calloused and cold, suddenly reached up and grabbed Craig’s face. 

He pulled the taller man back down, smashing their lips together. He tasted like coffee and sunflower seeds and Craig’s eyes, wide in shock, soon fell closed as he deepened the kiss. Tweek hummed, what sounded like half-surprise and half-contentment, and smiled against Craig’s lips. And Craig couldn’t help but laugh when he realized the pouch of basil was crushed between Tweek’s barely-shaking hands and his own cheek. Even though he shook with joy, he couldn’t stop kissing the man before him, and Tweek didn’t seem inclined to let up either.

“W-What are you—” Craig stole another kiss before Tweek could even complete the sentence, so the blond spoke against his lips. “Laughing about?” 

“I ruined it.” Craig said between kisses, acting as punctuation no matter how unnecessary. His eyes had fully closed by this point and sensation overwhelmed him. The warmth of Tweek’s cheeks in his palms, and the softness of his lips, and how his hair tickled wherever it touched and how Tweek was pushing him back just so his kisses were out of reach.

“Ruined what?” He asked, almost exasperated, but a smile born of sunshine never left his face. Craig pried the pouch out of Tweek’s hands and held it between them, and then Tweek was laughing too.

“I’ll get you more.” Craig promised. He dropped the bag and his freed hands traversed down to Tweek’s waist. Craig’s arms snaked around the smaller man to pull him in as close as he could. It would never really be close enough.

“You’re so kind.” Tweek said, and he kissed him again, soft and chaste, and honey-warmth spread into Craig’s lungs. “You’re too kind.”

Craig buried his nose into the crook of the blond’s neck, taking in the heady scents of lavender and coffee and basil, all _Tweek_. His lips brushed against Tweek’s frantic pulse as he whispered: “Nothing is too kind for you.” 

Suddenly, hands are yanking Craig’s hat from his head and Craig would almost think it was an accident if it weren’t for those same fingers running through his hair and tugging. Craig’s face is pulled away from Tweek’s neck, and there’s a wild look in Tweek’s eyes before Tweek is guiding Craig’s lips back to his own and crashing them together.

This kiss is different and desperate and too good to be true. Tweek’s chapped lips are pressing against Craig’s like it’s the last thing they’ll do, and Craig kisses back as if to say it’s not the last. It never will be. 

His hands reach up to cradle Tweek’s face again, and Craig marvels at how it takes no effort for their lips to slot perfectly together. And in this moment — a moment that, really, is the culmination of so many moments, moments that Craig held tightly in his heart without realizing and moments that weighed on his mind and moments that woke him up every morning —

Craig realizes (or admits, or finally has words to say) that this whole time he’s been in love. That unfamiliar feeling that flooded his chest every time wide blue eyes stared at him, every time Craig had the sun in his eyes. That’s _love_. 

There’s a compulsion to whisper it aloud. _That’s love!_

He’s in love. He loves Tweek. And Tweek, kissing him — Tweek, without words — says he loves him too. He has _already_ given Craig so much love, and Craig feels a tightness in his chest. A desperation for Tweek to receive that adoration, that desperation, that comfort and care back in any way Craig can give it. He loves him so much, so much, so much — he would go to the ends of the earth for him, he knows, he swears.

And Craig, just suddenly, notices he’s talking before thinking, again, words pulled raw from his throat, pressed desperately against Tweek’s lips. Tweek’s lips are moving too, shaking with the rest of him, and Craig clutches him tightly when he realizes Tweek is laughing. 

“You don’t have to go to the ends of the earth for me.” Tweek is saying. His cheek is pressed to Craig’s chest and his voice vibrates into his ribcage. “Y-You don’t have to go, and even if you do, I’m coming with you.” 

Craig pulls Tweek’s face from his chest again, desperate to look at him. Their bodies were still flush against each other, and Craig traces his thumb against Tweek’s cheekbone, feeling it burn as Tweek blushed. The dark-haired man breathes out a laugh as more kept bubbling out of Tweek, ragged and estatic and joy-filled.

“Let’s start with that mountain trip, yeah?” Craig says, smile reaching his eyes. “We’ll do the end of the earth another day.”

Tweek can only nod, looking like he’s seconds from laughing again, or starting to cry, or something in between. Craig just holds him, holds him, and he feels warm. 

He doesn’t really register how long they keep kissing, or when they finally untangle from each other and march up to bed. (Though their hands — Craig’s left, Tweek’s right — never uncouple, even if only pinkies are linked). 

God, things move so fast — the sun shines through the small bedroom window before Craig’s heart feels the full weight of what happened. A kiss from Tweek (a silent “good morning”) lifts it immediately. It’s a relief, that with all this new there was the constant of Tweek, and loving him, and how that was _right._ And this new day was an exercise in dichotomy: because nothing has changed. Craig is a shadow at Tweek’s side, still, ready to help him grab down dried herbs he can’t reach or brew another pot of coffee mid-afternoon. Tweek is as diligent as ever, making sure the shop runs like clockwork and Craig’s stitches in his arm keep staying in place. 

But everything has changed. Kisses were stolen between hours spent packing and hands were distracted from poultice-making, choosing instead to trace up a lover’s shirtless form. This next trip up the mountain to gather herbs loomed like a honeymoon.

And these few days of preparations for their travels go as quickly as they came. By the end of the week, a group is perched at the exit of town. Each are constantly clanging with coins bags and potions and a readiness to _go_. 

Craig Tucker, of House Feldspar, First of his Name, and the stealthiest Thief of the Realm stood among his friends. Tweek Tweak’s hands are gloved and wrapped in Craig’s own, heartbeats thrumming together. 

The Lavender Beds smell of basil, and Craig smiled. Adventure awaits.

**Author's Note:**

> i have no memory of writing any of this except for the line “so it would seem” bc snape says that in potter puppet pals. you have to read it in snape’s voice from potter puppet pals
> 
> alas, a cornucopia of love! aww. the end.
> 
> come hang out with me on twitter [@breadpoetsociet](https://twitter.com/breadpoetsociet).


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